


First Night

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot, Politics, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9055303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: Lord Eddard Stark refused King Robert's call to serve as Hand. It was a slight that might have been forgiven in time, but when Lord Stark also denies a betrothal between his eldest daughter, Sansa, and Prince Joffrey, their friendship is shattered. Now Robert is dead, and a new, merciless king sits upon the iron throne. King Joffrey enjoys tormenting his subjects whether high or lowborn. When he learns that Sansa Stark is set to marry, the king grants a decree most unusual to his most trusted adviser as insult and retribution for Lord Stark's past insolence.





	1. Chapter 1

When one receives a summons from the king — particularly, this king — one cannot help but wonder if the fates had finally aligned against oneself. Therefore, it was quite a shock when King Joffrey placed a decree before Lord Petyr Baelish, overturning a long ago forbidden practice, and even extending its reach into those houses of high nobles. Were that the extent of it, he might have assumed it was business as usual for the kingly tyrant, but no. Joffrey had far more devious plans. It was under the guise of these proclamations, that Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Paramount of the Trident, Protector of the Vale, Master of Coin and Lord of Sheep Shit found himself traveling to Winterfell to attend the wedding of Sansa Stark as the king's emissary — in all things.

Petyr smiled at his luck for the gift that had been bestowed upon him. Certainly, it would not be easy to attain, and the very mention of it may indeed start a war, but ah! If it did happen as the king commanded, it would be a revenge most sweet.

The king's road was a perilous trek, regardless that it was the height of summer. Even so, Lord Baelish and the king's company of fifty gold cloaks made swift work traversing it. Eager as he was to reach his prize, he countenanced no layabouts in his camp. Only two and half weeks passed before he spied the towers of Winterfell looming in the distance, and then merely half a day before he entered its gates.

Within the dour grey walls, Lord Baelish was greeted with all the fanfare of a king. The Starks and their smallfolk gathered round to see King Joffery's man and bid him welcome. It was only after he exited the wheelhouse, that he witnessed the shock splayed over the features of his once beloved, Cat. The king, in his infinite cruelty, did not inform the Starks who would be coming, only that they should expect a royal ambassador. Petyr could not help the swell of pride in his chest as he strode glibly towards his ill favored hosts.

"My dear, Cat," he exclaimed in greeting, looking down at her with his customary smirk in place. "Please, there is no need for formalities. You were once like a sister to me, after all." Petyr could not quite hide the hint of malice in his voice, and bit at the inside of his cheek; a reprimand and a reminder to keep himself in check.

"Lord Baelish," she addressed him hesitantly. "I- I fear we did not anticipate the arrival of such a... dear friend," she lied diplomatically as those gathered in the courtyard arose. "Allow me to introduce my husband, Lord Eddard Stark."

"Lord Stark, I have wanted to meet you for quite a while." He extended his hand in greeting. "It is not everyday a man says no to his king and keeps his head intact." The _fool_.

"I only did what my conscience would but allow," Ned said gripping his hand tightly, painfully. "I have heard that you knew my brother, once upon a time." Petyr did not miss the warning held in his voice or his look. Keep your hands away from my wife, it spoke. An unnecessary warning, but one that Petyr would accept nonetheless.

Smiling amiably, though his grey-green eyes did not, Petyr replied, "Indeed, I did. He taught me a most important lesson. One that I still proudly wear to this day — from navel to collarbone." He impressed the revelation with a smooth glide of his fingers over the brocade of his robe where the offensive tattered flesh rested beneath.

They held each others gazes in silent challenge until, Cat, growing uncomfortable with the exchange, made a concerted effort to break the tension. Speaking with false joviality and a forced smile, she redirected Petyr's attention with a sweeping outstretch of her arm. "Lord Baelish, allow me to introduce our children."

Petyr's eyes reluctantly trailed from Lord Stark to his wife. It is as he is being introduce to a brick-jawed, dark haired brute of an heir that he notices how tired she looks. She was a fair-skinned beauty during their days at Riverrun, and she still held that grace that he had once adored, but now Cat seemed weathered. The cold of the Northern winds left her lips chapped, and her skin taut and dry. Even her hair that had once shown a brilliant auburn in the sunlight, had darkened and languished in the dreary grey of a cloud filled sky. No, this was not the Cat that he had known and loved all those years ago. The harsh life of the North had changed her beyond recognition. She had become as icy and joyless as the place she now called home. Even her wit, that had once entranced him, seemed limp and frayed like so much moldered rope.

As these realizations washed over him, Petyr caught in his periphery a tendril of vivid red behind his hostess, dancing in the wind. He swiftly took his leave of the heir apparent, and stepped around his childhood love. The sight that greeted him caused his breath to hitch in his chest, and two icy blue orbs drew him forward unwittingly.

Taken aback by Lord Baelish's sudden sidestep, Cat struggled to recover herself. Upon seeing the object of his sudden interest, she pursed her lips. "This is our daughter, Sansa. As you know, she is to be wed a week hence," Cat stated decisively, admonishment clear in her tone as she glared at him harshly.

The note of Cat's voice, and the threat in her gaze did not even faze Petyr. It was as though he was someone else in that moment. A young boy standing before the queen of love and beauty that he had yearned for so many years ago. The armor that he had adorned after seeing so many of his dreams crash around him in blood and steel, abruptly revealed a small chink in its façade. A chink that the beautiful creature before him could easily rend and tear until she found that hollow space where his heart once sat and crawled inside.

It was only a split second later that Petyr had composed himself; replaced his mask of indifference. However, he could not help the suggestive glance that he swept over her form. Sansa was summer, itself, made flesh; hair the fiery red of the sun, and eyes an endless blue sea. A weaker man could get lost for days in their fathomless depths. And her figure was carved from the finest alabaster, and oh, how he longed to taste even a hint.

In a self-indulgent move that he would normally scorn as vulnerability in others, Petyr reached out and clasped her bare hand in his, silently drawing it to his lips for a gentle caress. The kiss lingered a second too long, and he reluctantly released her lithe fingers, but not before his wicked tongue delved out to taste the sweetness of her skin. Sansa cast down her eyes, and flushed the most delectable shade of pink; the very embodiment of innocence. While no one could say with certainty that an impropriety had been committed, both he and she knew what had transpired between them.

Before anyone might witness her odd shift in demeanor, Petyr quickly redirected her thoughts. Wearing the consummate mask of a courtier, he said, "Congratulations on your upcoming marriage, my Lady. I hear it is a most advantageous match."

As her cerulean gaze caught his own grey-green once more, he saw the light in Sansa's eyes dim for an instant before recouping, and she answered. "Y- yes, my Lord. I am very grateful. I hope that my marriage will bring honor to my house." She smiled, but her eyes held a hint of apprehension. Her reticence resounded palpably in his ears, and it reignited plans that Petyr had long held dormant. The light of his smile radiated to the rest of his features, as the realization dawned. Sansa Stark was the key to everything.

* * *

A week passed by uneventfully, and much to Petyr's chagrin, he was unable to steal a single unobserved word with Sansa. After witnessing his barely veiled interest in their daughter, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell seized at every precautionary measure to ensure that sweet Sansa was never alone — especially with him. It seemed their trust extended no farther than what was necessary to appease the crown.

So it happened that instead of working towards endearing himself with the bride-to-be, Petyr applied his talents to learning more of her betrothed, Ramsay Bolton. The whispers that reached him were grave indeed, and he imagined only the direst of circumstances would allow the honorable Starks to sell her off to the man — a recently legitimized bastard with a penchant for sadism. No, the delicate, red-haired deity that had invaded his dreams these last nights would not fare well at this monster's hand. This marriage was clearly arranged to ensure a strengthened Northern alliance amidst the murmurs of an oncoming war.

Pondering over the implications, Petyr drew forth the documents that the king had granted him. It was a play for power as much as a cruel insult to the house that rejected a king. It was understood that as the King's trusted emissary, it would be he that carried out the orders, but it could just as easily end with his head on a spike above the gates of Winterfell. It was a risk, but who was he if not a man to risk everything. The thought of the rewards alone brought glee to his crippled heart. Indeed, this wedding would be quite the event.

Petyr spied the dwindling daylight out his window. The long reaching shadows gave way the time, and he knew the ceremony was fast approaching. Quickly, he donned his finest silk robe, a deep emerald green with embroidery of gold thread intricately woven throughout, then placed the royal decrees in a discreetly hidden pocket, before draping a rich, burgundy cloak, signifying his status as the King's representative, diagonally along his body. He clasped his mockingbird sigil on the shoulder where it hung, and glanced at the looking glass to assure that he was the very picture of Southron refinement and kingly authority. Satisfied, he made his way to the Godswood with a knowing smirk and a jaunty swagger.

Even this deeply into summer, the Godswood was all simple elegance. There were no flowers adorning its grounds. Only the grey-green of the towering sentinels, and the austere white of the ancient weirwood. The latter's claret leaves glowed in the light of the setting sun, and enveloped the audience of nobles and smallfolk in its flushed halo. It was a sight that set even Petyr's heart aflutter in a strange sort of awe.

No sooner had Lord Baelish taken his place of honor near the head of the congregation, then Lord Eddard Stark entered arm-in-arm with his breath-taking daughter at his side. Sansa was a vision of loveliness in a brocade gown of purest white. It fastened tightly about her bust with two silver direwolf clasps, and had a neckline that protected her modesty. Over her hips, it flared and cascaded in her wake to present an abbreviated train that swept gently over the mossy floor. She was the perfect picture of innocence, with her braided auburn locks swept up atop even more beautifully sculpted features. Azure eyes and parted pink lips completed the image of the Maiden reborn.

Each man, woman, and child were transfixed by the stunning woman that walked down the aisle; a faerie princess come into the mortal realm. Only Petyr seemed to truly see the trepidation, despair, and fear that scattered the gaze of her eyes. She knew, he realized. While her honorable parents may have placed this arrangement before her without knowledge of the beast she would be bound to, Sansa knew precisely, and went into it willingly to save her house.

Family, Duty, Honor. Petyr hated those accursed words more and more with each step she took. This ephemeral goddess was walking toward her doom, all because there was no other path presented before her. Damn the Starks. Damn the Tullys. Their beliefs and their words only brought misery. There would be another route for Sansa, and he would set her upon it himself.

* * *

The wedding feast was a grand affair. A Stark had not been wed in nigh on twenty years, and even still, there had been no time to celebrate that marriage within the walls of Winterfell, in the midst of war as it had been. Lanterns shrouded the great keep in ambient light, and the high trill of the harp had the well-wishers and their shadows, alike, dancing jubilantly.

The merry band of drunken guests ate, and laughed, and drank, and Petyr observed even Roose Bolton seemed pleased with the event. Petyr occupied a seat of honor at the high table, as befit a royal ambassador, to the right of Lord Stark. Meanwhile, his wife, newlywed daughter, and her husband were seated to the left. Petyr quietly regarded the newlywed couple from his periphery, and noted that while Ramsay played the role of dutiful husband outwardly, every hushed word spoken into his wife's ear caused a pallor to set in her cheeks, and a twisting of her fingers in her lap. As he considered just how to approach the attending lords concerning the royal decree, a cry for the bedding erupted in the hall.

Any tact that Petyr might normally have employed to save the bride embarrassment was halted as he gestured to the attendant Gold Cloaks for assistance, and stepped forward to block the ascent of a ragged, hard group of men. Lord Baelish spoke, "Gentlemen, I'm afraid there will be no bedding this night. The groom will have to wait until the King's edict is carried out."

Ramsay laughed loudly behind him, and there was an maniacal edge to it that set Petyr on guard. "Like hell I will. I've wed her, now it's time to bed her!" he cajoled, as he gripped Sansa's forearm in a vise that made her squirm.

Petyr turned around to address him again. "Wed her you may have, but bed her you will not. Not on this night." Petyr then handed forth a parchment bearing the royal seal to a very confused Lord Stark when he approached. 

As Ned studied over the royal proclamation, his face hardened and his breath heaved. Cat, spying over his shoulder, looked stricken by the words on the page, and anger lit her eyes as she cast them over to Petyr. "You can't, Petyr. You can't. If you have ever borne any love for me, please don't do this," she said vehemently.

"Unfortunately, it is not up to me. I have come here representing the King, and these are his orders. Were I to countermand them, he would put my head on a spike. My former affection for you has no bearing on the issue at hand," Petyr said dispassionately, and Cat winced as though he had raised his hand to her. If she had thought he might still believe himself in love with her, she now knew the truth.

It was then that Ned grabbed at the silk of his chest and pulled him close. "And if you do this, it will be me that puts your head on a spike," Ned raged in quiet fury. "Everyone out!" he ordered, and pushed Petyr back violently against a wall.

When the hall had cleared, Cat tried her best to calm his pacing form. "Ned-" Cat spoke, but she was quickly cut off.

"No!" he roared. Waving his finger in Petyr's face he spoke, "That bastard is no king, and I'll not allow him to do this!"

Seeing his opportunity, Petyr pleaded, barely audible to any but Ned. "Would you have war, Lord Stark? Your tongue condemns you as a traitor, yet all this could be forgotten. Is one night of your daughter's life worth losing tens of thousands of lives? That is what will happen should you reject this demand. Joffrey is itching to wipe the Starks out and you know it as well as I. He has never forgiven your slight against him. Provoke him over this, and your family will bleed."

Ned let out a growl before pacing away from him, and tossing the King's orders on the table. Running his hands through his russet hair, he took time to consider Petyr's words. "She is my daughter. I cannot ask this of her."

"Then there is a simple solution," Petyr assuaged. "We will present her the options before us, and we will abide by whatever she decides."

Ned scoffed. "You say that as though it is a simple thing. Do you not have a shred of honor, my Lord?"

Petyr placed his hands behind his back, and met Ned's eyes before he smiled sardonically. "Oh, a shred, I assure you. But honor, alone, cannot protect one from a wrathful king."

Narrowing his eyes, Ned nodded in acquiescence, and retrieved Sansa from the opposite side of the hall where Ramsay held her caged. He let her go reluctantly, and his eyes were daggers following their path back to Petyr.

Upon meeting Petyr's gaze, Sansa begged question, "One of you, please tell me what is going on?"

"Sansa, there is... The King has..." Ned sighed and closed his eyes, unable to find the words.

"King Joffrey," Petyr piped up guilefully, "has decreed that the Lord’s' Right be reinstated across the Seven Kingdoms. Or more aptly, the King's Right, as it now applies to all noble houses." He paused, attempting to choose his words carefully. "He has decided that you are to be the first... example... to the kingdom."

Sansa's eyes darted over Petyr's features as he spoke, trying to absorb all that he was telling her. "The King's Right? But... if the King is not here, then how..." and understanding flitted over her face, soon followed by a deep blush. She dipped her head to hide her embarrassment.

Ned took her hands in his, "You don't have to do this. You can say no, and we will risk the King's ire."

Sansa's gaze shot up at that. "The King's ire? You mean war. If I don't do this, we will go to war?" she said incredulously.

"Yes," Petyr reasoned. "Our _brave_ king," he said malevolently, "is not a forgiving king, I'm afraid. You are correct in your assumption. It would mean war, and your decision in this moment will determine the course of future events."

"Then, truly, there is no choice. I will not be another Lyanna. I will do as the King commands," she said with her head bowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prima Nocta = First Night. It was an old medieval practice.
> 
> It was called the Lord's Right in ASOIAF, and it was under that principle that Ramsay was conceived, despite it being outlawed at least 100 years previously. 
> 
> Just a fun tidbit of info for those interested.


	2. Chapter 2

The slam of the door, sent an icy wave up Sansa's spine. After much argument, Lord Baelish had triumphantly led her to the bridal suite with a gentle hand. There were no words spoken between them during the journey through the corridors, for what could either of them say, knowing what would transpire between them this night. 

Ramsay raged when he learned that he would be denied his prize, and was placed into the custody of a dozen Gold Cloaks. She did not fool herself to believe that his anger stemmed from love. No husband who loved his wife would whisper of giving her to his most trusted men to be raped if she did not please him. Especially not at their own wedding feast. The thought of what punishment he may met out to her for this, she did not want to know. The very idea caused her body to tremble uncontrollably.

After bolting the door to the parlor, Petyr turned from it to see a visibly shaken Sansa, clutching at the fine material of her skirts; blue eyes darted around the floor as if looking for some sort of escape that remained unseen. He knew that brides were often nervous on their wedding night, but this was not that. This was fear. Whether it was because of him or Ramsay, he could not say for certain, but he knew that a frightened person was less likely to trust — and he needed Sansa to trust him. On soft soles, he approached her quivering form until he stood before her, and decorum forced her to meet his gaze. 

Petyr placed a placating hand to her elbow and addressed her gingerly, "My Lady, you shake like a newborn foal. Would you not sit?" 

At her nod, he laid a soft hand to the small of her back, and she was surprised that he led her to a chair by the hearth instead of the bed. 

"I feel I must apologize. I wanted to speak with you all week, give you some warning that this might arise, but such topics could not be broached in company, and you seem to have been surrounded at all times," Petyr said, as he poured two goblets of spiced wine. 

"Yes," Sansa said, observing him through down-turned lashes. "It seems I was kept quite occupied with the wedding plans, though they had been settled nigh on a moonturn," she replied, not knowing what else to say. "Though, I must ask how you thought to approach me with this particular news? It seems a great risk to reveal such intentions beforehand," she commented shrewdly with a raise of her brow.

Petyr was unable to contain his smirk at her cleverness as he handed her a goblet. "Indeed. I must admit, I would not have told about... this. There are, however, other matters I wanted to discuss — regarding the realm," he said, hoping to pique her interest.

"The realm?" Sansa said with surprise. "What would that have to do with me?" She took a small sip of her wine, and eyed him over the rim of her cup.

"Well, I suppose that depends on the choice you make here tonight," Petyr said, taking his seat and lifting his own goblet knowingly. 

Sansa looked down, and fidgeted with a loose thread at the arm of her chair. "I have already stated that I would do as my king commands. What else is there?" she stated quietly.

Petyr looked her over for a moment, before leaning back into the chair and deciding his angle of pursuit. "Do you really believe that this night will stop a war, my Lady?" 

Blue eyes met grey-green before she spoke sadly, "No. I only hoped to buy time." Her nails continued to pluck at that errant strand nervously.

This response only aroused his own curiosity, and he could not help but ask gently from beneath hooded eyes, "Time for what, my Lady?"

Sansa knew it was folly to tell him anything, but something in his eyes, in the way he talked to her, treated her with respect uncommon to her gender made her want to tell him all. In the end, she decided to veil the truth with imprecise words. "I hear things. People talk around me as if I've no wits between my ears, but I am more than my beauty, my Lord. The winter was long and harsh," she said bluntly.

_The North is not ready,_ is what Petyr heard. Yes, she was a sly one, he thought. Beautiful, and smart, and strong; a worthy queen.

Petyr readjusted in his seat, and crossed his legs. "Is that why you agreed to the match with the Bolton boy? To strengthen the North against what may come?" he probed, positive that he already knew her answer.

Sansa looked away from him, and stared into the blazing fire before them. "My father... he wanted to keep the Boltons close. This was the surest way," she said with hesitancy.

Petyr watched as her shoulders slumped, and her head dipped to watch her own twisting fingers. "Do you really believe that, my Lady?"

"No," she said sorrowfully. "But it is what my father asked of me, and I dared not refuse him."

Petyr drank down his wine brusquely. "Your father is a fool," he remarked offhandedly, as he rose to refill his cup.

"My father is an honorable man," she shot back heatedly. 

"And yet, still a fool," he replied flatly. "Lord Bolton has been colluding with the Lannisters for the past year." He let the weight of that admission hang heavy in the room, and watched as Sansa's face paled.

The pieces seemed to click in her mind. "Lord Bolton means to betray my father," she breathed it out on a sigh. "Why?"

"Warden of the North is a valuable prize, don't you think?" he supplied with a quirk of his brow.

Then, Sansa further realized the implications. "But... that would mean my father would have to die. Robb, Bran, Rickon... " Sansa covered her mouth, attempting to stem the rising bile in her throat. She stood quickly, and in a quick succession of gulps, downed the rest of her wine, and went to refill her goblet.

"You see the problem, then," Petyr asserted. "By marrying his son to you, he will have a Stark in his possession, and the North will be far less likely to rebel once he lays claim to the title and lands which the Lannisters will gratefully bestow upon him."

"My marriage has doomed my family," Sansa said, disheartened, as she strode to the back of her chair to stand.

Petyr raised a hand to argue. "Not yet," he said decidedly. "There is still time to rectify the situation."

"I don't understand your meaning," Sansa said as she willed the wine to work quicker.

"What we do here this evening, will buy you time if nothing else. The Boltons will not want to risk an heir that could be claimed a bastard. Ramsay will likely wait a moonturn before he claims his rights. Though... " he paused. "What he might do in the meantime remains a mystery," Petyr said diplomatically.

Sansa dropped unceremoniously into her seat, and shivered at the thought. 

Petyr spied her suddenly pallid complexion, then spoke, "You know what he is? I'm not mistaken there?"

"No, my Lord. I- I know what he is. My father told me not to pay attention to the whispers that reached my ear. He assured me that Lord Bolton promised that it was only malicious gossip spread by upbraided smallfolk. But tonight... " Sansa could not finish the thought. It was too abhorrent to speak aloud.

Petyr cleared his throat. "Yes. I'm quite certain he made it clear what sort of man he is. One only needed to look at you and see," he said with sad eyes. 

"In truth, when you revealed to me the situation, I could not help but be relieved," she laughed lightly.

"Is that so?" He could not contain the smirk that appeared on his lips. 

Sansa flushed. "I mean... not because I desired you... Oh gods... Not because you aren't desirable. You're a very handsome man... This is not coming out right. Forgive me, it's just..." Sansa began to regret imbibing her drink quite so quickly. Her tongue seemed to have a mind of its own, and the courtesy for which she prided herself seemed to slip away.

Petyr laughed, a gravelly, low rumble of appreciation. "I understand," he said. "You don't need to explain. I'm quite certain no woman present envied you your task this night."

"And yet, it is a fate I cannot escape forever," Sansa said forlornly. She, then, eyed him queerly. "But wait. You said I had a choice?"

"I did," Petyr said with a dip of his head. "I can help you, help your family, if you but ask."

"Why? You are the king's trusted adviser. You would risk your position, your head, to help me? Us?" Sansa asked incredulously.

Petyr let out a great sigh. "I advise the king because it has benefited me to do so these many years. However, make no mistake, I have no love for the Lannisters, and even less for Joffrey." He continued, "Would you like to know a secret, my Lady?" 

The redhead nodded eagerly. She always enjoyed a rich bit of gossip, and his company in combination with the effects of the wine left her with a heady feeling. 

Petyr leaned forward conspiratorially, and waited for her to mirror the action. "The Lannister mines are dry. They are in debt for more than they could ever repay, and the Iron Bank will come knocking at their door soon enough. Lord Tywin is holding up that family by sheer force of will. If something happens to him, it will all come crashing down." He flashed her a playful grin.

"Even Joffrey?" Sansa said excitedly, leaning into him heavily.

"A little bird told me he won't live out the moonturn, and young Tommen would be a far kinder ruler, should King Joffrey meet ill ends," he said with a deepening rasp in her ear.

Sansa leaned back to meet his eyes. "Why are you telling me this? I could send a raven in the morning, and the Gold Cloaks outside would have you cut down before you left." She said it with a mischievous sparkle in her eye.

"To paint a picture. Give you a new path, should you choose to take it. And the Gold Cloaks know who pays them, sweetling. It's not Joffrey." Petyr smirked at her as he reclined back into his chair, and sipped again from his cup.

"What is this choice you'd gift me then?" Sansa asked anxiously, running her fingers over the fine brocade of her dress. 

"You can stay here after this night, suffer the brutalities of Ramsay, and hope that I am lying about their deal with the Lannisters, or... " Petyr said it with emphasis. "You can ask me to arrange... an accident before the Boltons have a chance to betray this newer, stronger alliance," he replied with an acid tipped tongue. "Then, after the commotion settles, consent to marry me. No one will protest the match after this night. A sharp wit like yours, and in such a beauty, would be very useful in King's Landing."

Sansa blushed at the compliment, but confusion settled foremost in her mind. "Why bring this to me? Why not tell what you know to my father, and ask for my hand as reward?" Sansa queried, all mock innocence, as the wine gifted her courage.

Petyr smiled at her flirtatious act. "Because it would require your Lord father to carry out some very dishonorable deeds to rectify the situation — something you Northerners abhor. Also, because he doesn't trust me, nor anyone from King's Landing. Neither does it help that I have history with your mother," he added wryly.

"Mother has never talked about you," Sansa said as she studied his form.

"No, I expect not," Petyr exclaimed. "I almost died for her you know." He was feeling wistful. Too much wine, he thought.

"What?" Sansa gasped.

Petyr leaned back and watched the wine swirl in his goblet. "I was a boy. Only a couple years younger than you are now. And I loved your mother, as only a foolhardy young thing could. When I found out she was to marry a giant from the North, I convinced myself that she didn't want it. That she loved me too, and was only doing as her father asked, the same as you have done this night," he lamented. 

"When Brandon Stark arrived, I challenged him to a duel. He was a fully fledged, armored knight, trained in combat, and I was but the son of a lowly lord. I had no armor to my name, and I could barely lift the blasted sword," he scoffed. "But what do all the faerie tales and songs sing about, except of the weak hero beating down a stronger foe in the name of true love?

“I was convinced that my love was strong enough to win the duel, and prove myself to your mother. Unfortunately, life is not a song, and it was a lesson I learned as my chest was split open, and my blood ran out into the cool waters of the Trident." Petyr refused to meet Sansa's gaze, knowing well what he'd find there. Not wanting to see the pity play across her face, he took another gulp of his wine to fortify his crumbling walls.

"So is that why Joffrey sent you? An additional blow to the stability of my house," Sansa breathed.

"I couldn't say for certain, but if I had to guess, then yes," he replied, finally meeting her gaze. "What happened between myself and your family has never been a secret."

"Yet, I never knew of it," she sighed, wondering what else her parents had kept from her. The wine was making her bold, and she contemplated Petyr for a moment before asking, "May I see it?" She bowed forward, and gestured with her hand. "The scar?"

Taken aback, Petyr replied as he smoothed down the front of his silken robe, "It's not a pretty sight, I assure you." 

Sansa stood, then, and crossed the distance to him. "I will have to see it regardless, though, would I not?" Next, she did something wholly unexpected. She reached down, and with tender hands began to unclasp the mockingbird at Petyr's shoulder.

Petyr lifted one of his hands to her own, his grey-green questioning, "What are you doing, my Lady?"

Sansa said nonchalantly, "I thought that was obvious. I am helping you disrobe, my Lord." She gave him a coy smile, and he felt the force of it go straight to his cock, which was now half hard inside his breeches.

"Then perhaps," he said lewdly, "I can aid you in your endeavor." At that, he leaned forward, gazing intently at her face as he brazenly raked his hands down, and beneath her skirts. Sansa shivered as the heat of his palms slid slowly, slowly over her stockinged legs, hoisting the hem of her dress as they went. Once his digits found the exposed flesh of her thighs, he quickly slid them behind and pulled her down over his lap, straddling his hips. "Now, isn't that better?" he soothed as his fingers continued to play over her pale flank, raking his nails back, and then bringing the soft pads of his fingers forward over her bottom.

Sansa was awash in sensation. Her heartbeat was a rapid tattoo, and Petyr had done little more than smooth his hands over her, but she could already feel her arousal building deep and low and hot between her legs. Undeterred, she shifted forward to continue her progress on his robe, only to encounter the force of his erection hard against her own sensitive womanhood. They both gasped at the connection, and Sansa's hands flattened against his chest as she struggled to maintain her balance.

She closed her eyes, and rested her forehead against his own, as his hands moved upwards to grip her tightly at the hips. Slowly, he began guiding her movements. A simple press of his fingers and palms — back and forth — dictating the motion as their sexes blazed across one another. Their breaths were shared in an imitation of a kiss they had not yet experienced, and that awareness somehow made what they were doing here all the more immoral.

As though Petyr had read her mind, he pushed forward, and caught her mouth with his own. A gentle brush of lips, asking, but not forcing her cooperation. Upon their parting, Sansa felt bereft and surged forward to claim his kiss again. Wrapping her arms around his neck, tasting of each other, their dance continued, the melody of their moans and whines ringing around them, until Petyr glided a hand up between them to the clasps of her gown.

"I think, perhaps, we should dispense with this, don't you?" he said, indicating her dress as he toyed with the cool silver of the direwolf clasp.

It took a moment for the haze of Sansa's mind to clear enough to understand his words, so clouded with want had she been. She nodded her consent, and quickly his digits unfastened the catches, and worked his hands beneath the rich material of her gown. His palms spread hotly over her skin as he pried the brocade apart, grazing his hands up and over her breasts, until it could be slipped down beneath her shoulders to pool in the floor.

Petyr, then, reached up, and one by one, removed the pins that held the crown of auburn locks that adorned Sansa's head. When he was done, the fire which played behind her, cast her in a magnificent halo of light. Petyr looked at her in awe. She sat back on his thighs, red hair glowing, breasts heaving, blue eyes heavily lidded, and the most gorgeous blush radiated off her creamy skin. She looked a woman wanton and thoroughly debauched. He could not help when the pads of his fingers skimmed over the ivory flesh of her arms, shoulders, collarbones, and down until they rested at the crest of her bosom. It peaked out over the rim of her corset, only just concealing her nipples. Petyr leaned forward again, catching her lips in a searing kiss, and deftly applied his hands to the lacing at the back, eager to rid her of such confinement.

Sansa, dazed with this newly discovered passion, struggled for something to ground her. Anything to keep her from flying away fully into the fog of lust that he had draped over her. As his mouth devoured her lips and neck, she flexed her fingers over his robe, and found its clasps. Desperately, she began opening each fastening until at last she reached the top of his breeches. 

Petyr pulled back then, tossing the accursed corset to the floor, and wrapped his lean arms around her drawing her into himself. The fire of his kisses blazed down the velvety skin of her neck, over her collarbones, until finally landing over her sensitive, silk covered nipple. His tongue darted over the peaked mound, followed closely by the fevered warmth of his lips where he sucked and gently grazed over it with his teeth, sending sparks of pleasure straight to her core. The wetness of his mouth soaked through the thin shift Sansa still wore, and created an added friction over the already overwrought flesh.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Petyr wrapped her legs around his slender waist, and groaned as he lifted her with lean arms that belied their strength. He kicked open the door to the adjoined bedroom, and hastily threw them both onto the bed. He landed squarely between the apex of her thighs, and their dance continued anew. As their lips struggled to devour one another, his hands scorched a path over her body, and Sansa's hands worked with great effort to wrestle his opened robe off his form. Petyr's fingers worked their way to the top of her diaphanous shift, and once there, he yanked with straining muscles to rip the last barrier away from her. 

The sudden action drew Sansa's attention from the laces of his tunic that she'd been clawing at blindly. "That was my nicest shift," she said with a playful pout.

Petyr caught her lower lip between his teeth, then replied with a voice thick with lust, "I'll buy you a dozen more." He kissed her again. "A hundred more."

Petyr relaxed back onto his knees, and Sansa heaved in deep breaths as she observed him observing her. The man was a disheveled mess. The normally neatly coiffed hair that adorned his head, was in disarray, and the tunic that she had been prying at during their lustful groping stood open at the neck. A jagged line of white flesh peaked out from beneath a smattering of greying chest hair, and she imperceptibly rose, her hand reaching out unconsciously to graze at the skin there.

A flinch. It was barely there, a twitch at the corner of his eye. Instinctively, Sansa raised her other hand to his cheek, and guided his lips back to hers. Whatever self-conscious prick that was wriggling inside his head, she didn't want it to distract him in this moment. There would be time later, she told herself. 

As their lips claimed and devoured, Sansa brought her hands back to the lacing of his tunic, and one by one, released each thread, until his chest was as exposed as her own. She allowed her arms to fall at her sides, and the remnants of her torn shift slid from her shoulders. Bringing her arms once again to drape around his neck, she felt Petyr's own hands bring her flush to his chest. The scraping of his chest hair against her taut nipples drove a gasp from the back of her throat.

"You are so beautiful." The confession gushed forth from him, unbidden.

The straining bulge of his shaft pressed painfully against the confines of his pants, begging for release. Petyr groaned into her neck, unable to ignore the thrumming of desire running molten fire through his veins. As he positioned the nymph in his arms to lie down amidst the soft warmth of the feather bed, he laid a path of kisses down her torso, until he arrived at the swollen lips of her sex.

Sansa watched him as his head descended, shivered at each press of his lips against her fevered flesh, relishing as the cool air of the room lingered behind each one to tease at wet skin there. When his breath brushed against the hot skin of her mound, she realized he meant to kiss her there as well. So when his tongue dipped between her moist folds, Sansa could not contain the loud moan that escaped.

Hungry eyes lifted to watch as Sansa writhed. Her face was flushed with ecstasy, nails clawing into the linens in an effort to control the roiling that Petyr knew was pulsing through her. He swiftly released the laces of his breeches, allowing his hardened member to break free, then brought his hands around and over her hips, holding her steady as he delved with renewed thirst to drink in every inch of her drenched sex.

Increasingly loud whimpers emanated from the redhead as Petyr's tongue swirled and teased at the engorged bundle of nerves between her thighs. Placing one hand firmly over her stomach, he brought the other down to taunt at her tender entrance. He dipped one digit in to the first knuckle, watchful for any sign of discomfort from the maiden so willingly giving herself to him. Other than a sharp intake of air, and a breathy sigh, he saw nothing to make him abandon this pursuit. Pushing deeper, he felt as her walls clenched tightly around him, and saw as her body racked with this new awareness. The image of her, the feel of her, drove him to the brink, and he began to rut against the furs below him in response.

Petyr continued to work his finger in and out of her as his tongue flicked her in a matching rhythm. The rich, silk of her arousal coated his digit, and he eased a second into her. Sansa's hips bucked up to meet the pace his hand and tongue set, driving herself back onto him. Unintelligible strings of words fell from her lips, as he curled his fingers into her repeatedly. He could tell that she was close as he recognized the deep flutter of her walls around him. He wanted to make her come, show her the pleasure that could be had with coupling before he introduced her to the pain of taking her maidenhead. He redoubled his efforts, coaxing her ever closer to that horizon.

Back arching, the dam burst behind her eyelids. A white hot shot of heat down each limb, and tingling across her skin in a ripple of fire. Sobs of bliss flew from her lips, and as Sansa came down from this impossible height, she felt Petyr crawl up her body, worshiping her with each caress of his lips, until his head was nestled into the crook of her neck. He focused his attentions on the pulse there, dragging that skillful muscle that had just brought her to her peak, torrid and wet over the flesh, tasting the salt of her skin, before reclining back to take in the glazed look of satisfaction in her cerulean eyes.

Sansa lifted her palms to his chest, raking her nails over him as they came to rest at the back of his neck. "What did you do to me?" she whispered against his lips.

"Something I intend to repeat many, many times tonight." Then he covered her mouth with his own, kissing her deeply, dipping his tongue inside so she could taste her own sweetness on his lips. He groaned into her mouth, as his cock rubbed rabidly between her thighs, and Sansa swallowed it down, showering him in mewls of her own as their passion built again. She pushed his open tunic past his shoulders, wanting to feel every inch of him, and her ears perceived a silent thud, one after another, as he toed off his boots. Nimble hands guided his trousers over his hips to be kicked off toward the floor, and all the while, their lips continued to ravage one another.

Petyr rested his forehead against hers, and gazed hungrily into her eyes. He grasped Sansa's hand, and placed it over his thickened cock, which moments before was gliding through her own dewy arousal. 

"Whenever you're ready." It came out a rasping croak from his throat, and Sansa could tell it was taking all his effort to give her this power over him. She was scared of the pain to come, but in the same thought, she knew from Petyr's previous attentions, that he would be quick to soothe any discomfort. She stroked over him, one, two, three times, wanting to become familiar with this extension of his desire before it invaded her in such an irreversible way.

Mustering her courage, Sansa dipped the tip of his shaft into her entrance, released him, and allowed her hand to sweep gently around his back. Petyr looked at her for assurance, and she nodded her consent. Soon, she acknowledged a press against her entrance, and the man above her made to thrust hard into her, ripping at that last bit of innocence that demarked her transition to womanhood. Tears unwittingly fell from the corners of her eyes, as the torrent of agony crested over her.

Petyr had closed his eyes, not wanting to see the wrenching torment pass over features that only moments before were so beautiful in their rapture. He forced his eyes to open, forced himself to wipe away at the tears that made glaring red trails down her face. He kissed her forehead, her nose, each cheek, and finally, her lips, making a grand effort to reassure her. 

"The deed is done," he said. "I can stop here if it's too much." It took all his resolve to grate out that phrase, and Sansa could feel it in every vibration of his body, as he compelled himself to stillness.

Sansa shook her head, and brought his lips down to meet her own. It was only as their tongues began to dance, that he quickened inside her. It was slow, and gentle, and behind each thrust Sansa could feel the beginnings of something. Each roll of his hips brought him deeper, filled her, and heightened a throbbing that was coiling deep within her. Sansa sighed, and grabbed at his flanks. It wasn't enough. "Petyr... I need... more," she begged between breaths. "Please."

The sound of her pleading was almost enough to make him come undone. Petyr was trying desperately, reverently to be easy on her, but at her words, he gripped tightly at her hips and drove into her with a groan. His pace picked up, and he alternated deep strokes with short, punctuated thrusts. Her nails dug into his backside, and the sharp pain only encouraged him to move faster. He buried his fingers into the tangle of her hair, watched the euphoria drift over her features, and registered every hum, every moan, every whimper as it slipped from her elegant throat. _Gods!_ She was magnificent.

Soon, too soon, Petyr felt the telltale tightening in his groin, and each movement within her was a fight to maintain his composure. He wanted nothing more than to fill her with every drop of his seed, but not yet. Grunting, he sat up on his knees, and brought her up to straddle him. He braced one arm against her back, buried his hand in her hair, and forced her to make contact with his eyes — grey-green boring into blue as they shared breath. The other came down between them as he continued to drive himself into her. He circled his thumb over her clit, alternately pressing and stroking, until he could feel the familiar flickering of her walls against his achingly hard cock.

"Yes. Yes, that's it," he murmured in her ear. "Come for me, Sansa."

At his behest, Sansa felt that same explosion crescendo even more intensely than before. She wanted to cry out, but as the waves swept over her, she bowed her head forward and bit down on the straining muscle of his shoulder, so violent was the need that racked her bodily. The sharp burst of pain was enough to toss Petyr careening over the edge to his own bliss, and another thrust released his seed deep within her as he let out a harsh groan of contentment into her auburn strands.

They stayed that way, slumped against one another as each came down from their peak, trying to catch the breath that they'd so carelessly lost in their lust. Sansa was the first to pull away, and her eyes went wide when she saw the damage she caused with her teeth. Within the recesses of the bite she had inflicted on Petyr, she could see blood pooling in some areas. She immediately felt flustered, and reached behind her to drag her discarded shift to wipe at the crimson gathering there. "I'm so sorry."

Petyr reclined his head back to reveal the damage. "No need for apologies. It's not the worst wound I've received, and I daresay that if it should scar, I'll be most proud of it," he teased.

Sansa's face reddened, but she smiled, a small tilt at the corners of her mouth, as she continued to press the cloth against it, soaking up the blood.

Eventually, they began to shiver as their bodies cooled in the night air, and Petyr laid them down amidst the pillows, pulling up the heavy furs and linens as he did so. Sansa slid in beside him, resting her head against his chest, his arm wrapped around her, holding her close, fingers rubbing patterns into the skin at her hip. In the dim light, she could just make out the scar that bisected his chest, and the soft pads of her fingers slid over it. She could feel Petyr tremble slightly beneath her.

"It becomes you," she said gingerly. "Were I to see this chest without it, I would think it unreal," she explained. "It's an indelible part of you. Everything you were, and everything you are is woven into this strip of marred flesh." 

She felt as Petyr inhaled deeply. "I'm glad, at least, that you like it. I've never been fond of it myself. Too many bad memories." He buried his nose into her hair, and let out a soft breath. "You never did say what you wanted to do, my Lady."

Sansa snuggled deeper against the hard plane of his body. "I think..." she teased. "I think, King's Landing sounds like a very exciting prospect, my Lord." Petyr could feel her grinning against the skin of his chest, and knew that it matched his own. 

There was no need to tell her that he'd already enacted his plan. That Ramsay was likely already dead. He'd thrown himself over the walls of Winterfell, drunk and distraught over the claiming of his bride this night (or so it would be believed). No, but he could not help the stirring of his cock once more at the pleased tenor of her voice. Petyr was going to enjoy this woman. Teaching her, moulding her, and most definitely fucking her. The idea now firmly planted in his head, he rolled Sansa over, and claimed her mouth once more. 

The night was still young after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea popped in my head over Christmas, and I couldn't rest until I got it down. I love canon divergent AUs, and a small part of me wants to explore this further, but time is an issue. Maybe in the future. 
> 
> Anyway, TAKE MY SMUT! :D


End file.
